The world did not end with fire or ice. Not with wars, nor plagues, nor floods. Not with trumpets of horns, nor the dead rising from their graves. Not with beasts or demons crawling out from the cracks of the earth. Not with the black sun devouring heaven, nor entropy claiming all.

Every prophecy of doom had been wrong. Or perhaps, every prophecy had been right. It ended in the strangest way imaginable with the arrival of the System. The truest apocalypse of them all. Not a prophecy, not a scripture, not some divine decree… but something born from the idle dreams and obsessive fantasies of gamers, nerds, and bookworms scattered across the internet.

It came to be called many names: Return Protocol Omega. The Reckoning. The Ascension. The Great Collapse. The Fifth Extinction. The End Patch. But names did not matter. Only the rules did. And the rules had changed. One by one, the old laws failed. Technology stuttered. Electricity died. The laws of physics were bent and warped. The land, the seas, even reality itself—rewritten. In their place: Levels. Classes. Quests. Monsters. Rewards. The impossible had become possible.

The familiar old world peeled away like fading paint, revealing something vast and terrible beneath. A child could pick up anything and find it blazed with a name and its truest purpose. An office worker could wake to see his life achievements and strengths reduced to numbers. Long forgotten myths could find new life in the system designs. Cities found dungeons yawning beneath their streets. The seas filled with leviathans long whispered of in sailor’s tales. And above, the stars themselves shifted into strange constellations, each one a pathway leading to strange new worlds in the vast tapestry of the cosmos.

It was not the end foretold by any one eschatology. It was all myths at once folded together, rewritten, gamified. The System had arrived. The Age of Man had ended. A new Age dawned upon Earth of monsters, heroes, trials, and legends had begun!

- - -

A castle burned beneath shattered skies in Albion.

Buried deep in the ribs of North Wales, hidden from maps, satellites, and the memory of men, lay Caer Syllan, the last of the old keeps from a time long forgotten by many. Its towers were carved not by conventional construction methods but were shaped and formed through magical rituals and ceremonies, made from wyrmstone and oathsteel, veined with magic and prophecy.

There were no banners atop its walls, only ancient words of honor etched into black basalt: Names of the fallen. Promises of return. The sleeping crest of the Once and Future King.

Every corridor was a memory vault, every torch a sentry flame, every arch a binding circle against forces most mortals had forgotten how to fear. At its core, in the deepest vault of the Crown Crypt, waited in a sealed chamber not a tomb, but something older, something breathing a secret waiting for the right heir to stir it awake.

The System, still not here, did not yet recognize the keep. But the land did. And so did the Fae.

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It began at twilight. The air didn’t rumble, it screamed like a harp string breaking across a battlefield, a song interrupted by pain. Above the hills of the Yr Wyddfa massif in the region of Snowdonia, now raw with planar turbulence, the clouds spiraled into a whirl of silver and viridian. Then came the silence, the kind that comes before great violence. And then the sky tore open.

A rift ruptured reality like a blooming wound of light, bleeding through the sky like a scar across the firmament. Through that wound in the world poured a host of nightmares: creatures of glamour, deception, hunger, and war. This was no ordinary incursion. This was the Wild Hunt of the Apocalypse.

Not in thousands of years had the Hunt ridden upon Earth. Not since Avalon fell. Not since a time long forgotten. Now they came not to conquer, but to cleanse. Not to rule, but to unwrite an old legend. Their mission: to find and destroy the King of Knights legacy, or steal it before it woke. They were here for a ritual of extermination. A hunt declared upon a bloodline. And so the Wild Hunt descended.

Thousands emerged from the breach: Some glided on wings made of whispers and broken lullabies, mouths blooming with rows of poisoned fangs. Others stalked forward on antlered limbs, their bodies leaving frost, rot, and ruin in every step. A few crawled upon the earth like disgusting worms while others drifted at the edge, translucent and eerie. And leading them, cloaked in regal cloak, came the Horned Rider, Oberon’s Huntmaster, his mount a stag built from root and bone, his lance covered with the blood of a slain Fae queen, his crown writhing with seasonal spirits yet unborn.

This was no army of flesh and blood. Every motion they made disrupted physics, their presence warping gravity, sound, and time, their bodies refracting like glass dipped in dreams. And they had come to erase the last sanctuary of mankind's oldest dream.

Within the ancient fortress, old war-runes flared to life for the first time in centuries. The air thrummed as defensive constructs groaned into motion, their joints grinding with the dust of centuries, eyes igniting with emberlight. Spell engines buried deep in the walls began to hum. Artifacts chimes sang in reverse, casting out pulses of power. 

Then the alarm glyphs blazed atop Caer Syllan’s spine-towers, casting beams of crimson fire into the night sky not to warn the world, but to summon its protectors. And the Pendrath rose like a tide.

They came from halls, from watch barracks and chambers, armed not just with weapons, but with old lineage and great purpose. Their armor bore runes older than kingdoms, their blades still warm with the blessing of their long-dead king. They were not a regular army. They were the keepers of a forgotten myth, the last stewards of a fallen crown, and a sacred legacy. 

For centuries they had stood in silence and secret waiting, watching, training bound by duty and by a promise made in the age of legends and myth. And now… the Hunt had come. And the last dragons of Albion stood to face it.

- - -

Atop the outer terraces of Caer Syllan, the Fae Host advanced, an army of nightmare and beauty, their weapons forged from stolen joy, remembered grief, and illusions spun from mortal dreams. The Wild Hunt did not roar. It sang.

A war-song woven of madness and glamour, carried by the wind like a haunting echo. Each note was laced with false memories; grief that was not yours, triumphs that had never happened, deaths you had yet to earn. The song shattered wards, cracked ancient stone, and made men falter before a single blade was drawn. Then came the charge.

The Fae descended in spirals of broken logic and beauty made monstrous Riders of thorn and moonlight, their steeds snorted mist and their weapons hummed with joy and hunger. The skies above twisted into a dream of dusk, and from that dream poured shapes that had no right existing in the waking world.

Riders galloped across air itself, hooves sparking against the unseen veins of reality. Monstrous, twisted creatures clambered up the walls, leaving trails of silence and wither. Lumbering siege constructs of vine and ironwood, hurled boulders infused with death and entropy each impact aging the wall it struck by centuries. Shadowy figures darted through the breachlines, their howls turning to whispers in the ears of the living calling each defender by name. The fortress seemed to groan beneath the weight of the oncoming assault. But it held as it had much to protect.

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From Caer Syllan’s battlements, the Pendrath defenders did not rally. They simply took their positions. No horns. No speeches. Only the cold, unflinching certainty of duty of bloodlines bound to a crown that no longer ruled but still mattered. They replied with dragonsteel bolts and wyrmrune cannons that opened fires. Wyrmdrones screamed overhead, divebombing fae cavalry with payloads of dragonfire and mana charges.

Warriors lined the ramparts, channeling ancient combat patterns through their swords, cutting not just flesh but glamour itself. Magic users launched reality-burst glyphs that unraveled fae illusions mid-air, revealing invisible riders just before impact. Elite shock troopers clad in hulking armor leapt from battlements onto siege beasts, sacrificing themselves to slay these creatures. 

The defenders fought with discipline sharpened into doctrine. Lines held. Machines answered. Constructs detonated with radiant fury. Arcane circuits lit in perfect patterns as weapons born of sworn oaths unleashed their wrath. The sky turned black. For a time minutes, hours, eternity Caer Syllan stood defiant. But nothing holds forever.

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The Hunt pressed in. Their glamour surged and writhed like a living tide. Each fallen knight became a phantom echo, reanimated by fae sorcery and ancient rites to attack their former brothers. The Fae looked for any weakness they could find whether in rhythm or soul and took advantage of it, until they finally found the opening they were looking for and pushed. The gate broke wide open and like a tidal wave of madness, they poured through flooding the outer courtyards, drowning the defenses in chaos and song.

The Horned Rider himself entered the fray, mounted upon his antlered warbeast, his lance pulsing with magic and antitruth. He moved like a ripple through time undoing movement before it happened, rewriting fate with every step and slaying countless knights.

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Still the Pendrath did not yield. One great Knight held the causeway alone for three minutes, slaying fourteen riders before being pierced by countless fey-lances and dragged into the horde to be devoured. Others tried to hold the ground as well, burning themselves out to slay as many foes as they could, making countless sacrifices and heroic feats, but they were being overwhelmed.

The courtyard within the castle became a killing ground. Statues of Pendrath ancestors watched in silence as blood soaked the cobblestones. The defenders fought on. Not to win. Not even to survive. But to buy time for a future not yet written. The Wild Hunt moved inward. Room by room. Hall by hall. Each inch of stone cost blood and countless lives. And still the heart of the fortress remained sealed. The place where the legacy slept waiting for its chosen heir. But the fey were almost upon the last gate, ready to break it open and annihilate it.

Just before the collapse… something shifted. The Hunt slowed. The air stilled. Even the most monstrous of fae beasts hesitated, as if some force had awakened beneath the stone. And somewhere deep in the flame-lit dark footsteps echoed. It was like drums in the deep, slow at first, then rising with each beat, as if the fortress itself recognized its master’s stride. And then he stepped forward.

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Rhydderch Pendrath — the Red Wyrm, Head of house Pendrath, Warden of the King of Knights tomb. He did not ascend with fanfare. He did not speak. He simply walked forth. And the world moved aside. With each step, the air shivered. Runes along the walls turned from gold to crimson. The dying wards flared once more, fed not by spell or chant, but by presence. The stone beneath him steamed, not from heat but from the pressure of a soul too large to be caged in flesh.

He wore no crown, but the land bowed to him. He wielded no flag, but the wind carried his name. He bore no title, only duty. And when he reached the broken gate the Fae stopped. Even Wild Huntsman froze in place. The war-song faltered. The glamour recoiled. The Horned Rider’s gaze narrowed beneath his antlered helm, and his warbeast stomped once, summoning ripples of wild energy. But Rhydderch Pendrath did not hesitate. He stepped through the shattered arch and walked into the horde alone.

There was no battle cry. Only obliteration. He moved like a god amongst mortals. His spear Rhongomiant hummed with dragonfire, screamed with ancient hunger as it cleaved through both illusion and flesh. His gauntlet shattered glamours like glass and his bastion armor blazed with wyrmrunes. Every breath he took ignited the air, enveloping his enemies in fire not born of magic, but of bloodline and oaths.

Fae champions fell like kindling. He cut down a dozen in a heartbeat not just with speed, but with finality. Each strike was a sentence carried out, each movement an echo of Albion’s will. When they tried to ensnare him with wicked thorns woven from ancient groves, he walked through them like smoke. When they summoned forth beasts of forgotten forest gods, he slew them before they finished forming.

And then the Horned Rider stepped forward. They did not speak. There was nothing left to say. They had met in older ages, through older masks. The Horned Rider raised his lance, a weapon that bent fate and unraveled prophecy. His mount’s hooves hovered above the stone, the world itself unsure if it still wished to bear their weight. Rhydderch raised his spear dripping with blood and ichor in answer to his challenge.

Their clash was silent. It was not a duel. It was a collision worthy of stories, of ancient bloodline and great fey power. Their blades met and the world winced. The first impact shattered all the remaining glass in the castle. The second cracked a whole tower causing it to come crashing down. The third tore through reality itself, causing cracks to appear in the world itself. Glamour shattered. Flame surged. Power spiraled in violent rings across the sky.

The Wild Hunt howled in terror. The heavens wept. Even the legacy, still dormant in its slumber, twitched. And then with a roar that could have shaken the stars, Rhydderch struck true. His blade pierced through the illusions, through the false forms, through the lies and found the truth at the heart of the Horned Rider. And the Huntmaster fell.

The Fae recoiled back in fear. The Red Wyrm stood triumphant, bloodied but unbowed, as his enemy lay defeated before him. But it was not over. The Huntsman’s body which had fallen, a ruin of shattered glamour and fading magic, suddenly twitched. There was an unnatural rise, like a marionette pulled upright by unseen strings.